


Lead Me On (To The Other Side)

by boasamishipper



Series: Beyond [1]
Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: (to the other side), Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Ghosts, Hopeful Ending, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Male Friendship, Miscommunication, Moving On, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-05 08:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20485757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/pseuds/boasamishipper
Summary: Goose talked to him most nights. His choice of conversation was normal — movies he’d seen, music he liked, stories about his wife and son — and sometimes Ice almost forgot that Goose was dead at all.





	Lead Me On (To The Other Side)

The first time Tom Kazansky saw Nick Bradshaw, it was at NAS Pensacola, the self-proclaimed Cradle of Naval Aviation off the coast of northern Florida. Half the class had come from Annapolis, same as Tom, and Bradshaw was part of the twenty percent or so that hadn’t. He’d been NROTC at some school in Texas, and though he spent most of his time in class cracking jokes to anyone within earshot, he was a good student — and, as Tom learned, a genuinely good guy. All smiles, good-natured quips; always the one people wanted to sit next to in the mess hall or have a drink with in the O Club. Everybody liked him, Tom included, and Tom didn’t like many people.

Still, aside from the occasional hello in class or in the halls, they didn’t get a chance to talk for real until Flight Suit Friday. Tom usually hung around with Ron Kerner and Bill Cortell when he didn’t keep to himself, but Ron had gone off to flirt with one of the cocktail waitresses, and Bill had gone to spend some alone time with his new girlfriend. (That still hurt to see, even if he and Bill had only slept together a few times and Tom knew Bill hadn’t wanted anything serious.) Still. With both of them occupied, Tom was left alone at a table nursing a Stoli on the rocks.

“This seat taken?”

Tom looked up to see Nick Bradshaw himself standing before him, a bottle of beer in his hand. “All yours,” he said, and Bradshaw grinned and took a seat.

“Feels weird, you know,” he said. “The new uniform. Gotta say, I don’t think flight suit green’s really my color. Doesn’t bring out my eyes the way the khakis did.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “You’ll get used to it eventually.”

“Hope so.” He took a pull of his beer. “So, where’re you heading after this?”

“TRAWING 4, at NAS Corpus Christi.” He’d just found out that morning. “And you? You’re training to be a RIO, right?”

“Yep.” Bradshaw popped the p and took another sip of his beer. “I’m sticking around here for a while. VT-10. Hopefully by the time I’m done with training I’ll have a nice tan like you. I hear the ladies dig that.”

“I think they dig pilots more.”

Bradshaw laughed. “Is that why you joined up, Tom? To get all the ladies?”

Tom took a sip of his drink so he wouldn’t have to answer right away. In the distance, he heard Bill laughing with his girlfriend and decidedly did not look over in their direction. “Nah,” he said at last. “I just like to fly.”

* * *

The second time he saw Nick Bradshaw, it was at TOPGUN. They’d written to each other a few times over the years, exchanging stories about training and the callsigns they earned. Bradshaw was now going by Goose, which Ice had heard he’d earned after he’d torn someone a new one for making fun of another pilot. It was better than how Ice had earned his: he’d gotten into an argument with Raptor about his flying style, and Raptor had bared his teeth and snapped, “You’re a real bastard, Kazansky, you know that? You’re cold as ice, man.” The name, unfortunately, had stuck.

He’d heard Goose was coming to TOPGUN, mostly because Bill — now going by Cougar — had written him to say so. Cougar and his RIO were supposed to come, but Cougar had turned in his wings, wanted to spend more time with his wife and kid. Considering everything that had happened between them at flight school, that was probably for the best. Ice would take Goose’s company over Cougar’s any day.

Slider had been pestering him to go to the O Club that night so they could size up their competition, and Ice eventually conceded. Lo and behold, Goose and his pilot were there too, and Ice ditched the girl clinging drunkenly to his arm so he could go talk to them. Goose seemed just the same as he’d been back at Pensacola, and Ice was happy to see him again. Mitchell, on the other hand, seemed like a showoff, impulsive and brash and just as arrogant as he’d been in class, and Ice was definitely not impressed.

Eventually, Slider went off to try and score with the same girl who’d been flirting with Ice half the night, and Mitchell had followed the woman he’d sang to — _ actually _sang to, and badly at that — into the ladies bathroom, and Ice sat down beside Goose at the bar. “So,” he said, and Goose glanced over at him. “Your pilot seems…interesting.”

Goose laughed, a fond smile tugging at his mouth. God knew why. “Yeah, that’s Mav for you.” 

“Mav?”

“Yeah, short for Maverick. That’s his callsign.”

Of course it was. “Where’d you pick him up?”

“First assignment,” Goose said. “USS _ Kennedy,_ about…Jesus, almost three years ago now.” He took a pull from his beer, and Ice suddenly wondered if Maverick was the same guy that Goose had earned his callsign defending. Before he could ask — and before he could ask himself why he even cared in the first place — Goose was asking him how long he’d been flying with Slider, and what his last assignment was, and Ice was happy to answer those questions instead.

The conversation shifted from flight school to Cougar to their personal lives — Goose had gotten married, apparently, and had a son named Bradley — before returning to TOPGUN. “Seems like the competition around here’s pretty stiff,” Ice said. His eyes roamed around the room, sizing up Hollywood and Wolfman, and Sundown and Chipper, and all the other teams he and Slider would have to beat in the next five weeks.

“Seems like it,” Goose agreed. “Me and Mav won’t go easy on you if you don’t go easy on us.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “I wouldn’t expect any less of you,” he said, and he grinned his shark grin, all shining teeth and the promise of trouble. “But we’re still going to win.”

Goose hummed, raised the beer bottle to his mouth again. “We’ll see.”

* * *

As the weeks went on, Ice had to admit that victory wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d expected it would be. Maverick and Goose were giving him and Slider a run for their money in every hop. Normally he wouldn’t have a problem with that — he liked the thrill of competition just as much as any other pilot — but Maverick was starting to drive him insane. He was just as hotheaded and impulsive as Ice had thought, and he flew like a madman: completely dangerous, with no regard for the rules. Ice didn’t trust him as far as he could outfly him, and didn’t hesitate to make his displeasure known.

Maverick didn’t seem to like him much either, which Ice was fine with. He hadn’t come here to be liked; he’d come here to win, and win he would. Then he’d go back to the Gulf with Slider, and he’d never have to see Maverick’s stupid face again.

Goose, for whatever reason, found Ice’s and Maverick’s rivalry incredibly amusing. “Don’t you two ever get tired of butting heads?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat. They were in the mess hall getting coffee before the morning hop. The score was tied, and Maverick had won the last one, which meant Ice and Slider needed to win this one to regain their lead.

“Maybe if he’d stop flying like a reckless idiot then I wouldn’t feel the need to butt heads with him all the time.” Ice pinched the bridge of his nose. “Seriously, Bradshaw, how do you even deal with him?”

Goose shrugged. “He’s really not that bad, you know,” he said, and Ice had just enough respect for Goose to keep from scoffing out loud. “Besides, he’s been doing a pretty good job of keeping you on your toes.”

“Fair enough,” Ice conceded, because he couldn’t ignore the truth in that. Across the room, he saw Charlie Blackwood entering the mess hall and Maverick following her like a lost puppy. He wasn’t sure why seeing them together bothered him so much — probably because Maverick sleeping with their teacher was an unbelievably stupid move, even for him — and he stood from the table, taking his coffee with him. “See you in the sky, Bradshaw.”

Goose laughed, and he gave Ice a mock-salute. “Count on it, Kazansky.”

* * *

That was the last time Ice saw Goose.

Alive, anyway.

* * *

Things were hard, after Goose’s death. It was harder to smile, and the jokes they cracked in between hops and during class fell flat and tasted sour. Maverick withdrew from the world completely — keeping his head down, speaking only when spoken to, refusing to engage in the air — and Ice actually found himself missing him. (Not _him, _of course. Just their banter, and the feeling of having someone almost on his level. That was all.) He’d tried offering Maverick his condolences, even though offering comfort in general was far from his strong suit, and Maverick hadn’t even looked at him.

Maverick quit that same afternoon. Ice told himself not to take it personally.

He and Slider were Top Gun. It wasn’t even close. Ice had been longing to see his name on that plaque since Viper had talked about it at the start of the session, but he hadn’t expected victory to taste so bittersweet. (He also hadn’t expected to ever see Maverick Mitchell again, but was pleasantly surprised to be proven wrong.)

Ice was almost grateful for the crisis that demanded his presence somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean, at least until he found out that Maverick was heading there too. Alright, yeah, he felt bad for the guy, and Maverick did seem like he’d pulled himself together slightly since the funeral, but that didn’t mean that he was ready to fly again. Or that Maverick was ready to be the wingman that he and Slider and Hollywood and Wolfman needed, especially now that they were doing this for real. But when Ice had tried to bring up his concerns, Stinger had shot him down, and worse yet, Maverick had heard him. Which meant that tomorrow he’d be flying in an active war zone with a wingman who was grieving the loss of his best friend and also hated his guts. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He fell asleep easily that night, all things considered, but he woke as suddenly as if someone had splashed cold water on his face. It was early, so early that it was still dark. For a moment, Ice wondered if Slider’s snoring had woken him — it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time — but then his gaze shifted to the left, and his heart stopped cold.

There was a man standing in the center of the room, watching him intently. His body was outlined by a soft, glowing white light, and it took a couple of seconds for Ice’s eyes to adjust and make out individual details. Short, wispy blond hair. Brown eyes. A thin mustache. Goose.

Ice sat up straight. He was wide awake now, and his heart was pounding against his ribs hard enough to shatter bone. This couldn’t be real. He had to be hallucinating, or out of his mind. Or dead. Yes, that was it. Maybe he’d died in his sleep, and now Goose had come to take him to the other side.

“Tom,” Goose said. Jesus, he even sounded the same. “Can you see me?”

Ice swallowed hard. He knew he shouldn’t engage with what was obviously a figment of his guilty conscience — after all, it was his jetwash Maverick had flown through — but he managed a tight nod anyway. “Am I…” His voice trailed off. “Is…is this a dream?”

To his surprise, Goose grinned. “I’m flattered, Tom, but I’d think you had better things to dream about than me.”

Ice didn’t laugh, though he was tempted. Any Goose his mind could dream up could never have the real Goose’s ability to be a little shit at all times, so this couldn’t be a dream. But then what was it? “If I’m not dreaming,” he finally said, “then why are you here?” 

“I…” His smile faltered, leaving nothing but seriousness behind. “...I don’t know.”

And before Ice could ask any more questions, Goose disappeared like he’d never been there at all.

* * *

The odds had been stacked high against him — against them all — what with five fucking MiGs coming in out of nowhere, but somehow, miraculously, they’d all come out on top. And despite Ice’s fears about Maverick being unable to properly engage in the fight, he’d proven himself a worthy wingman. Still dangerous, of course, but Ice was surprisingly okay with that. Even he had to admit Maverick’s stunt with the last MiG was impressive.

They stayed on the _ Enterprise _ for about a week after that, during which Ice didn’t see much of Maverick outside briefings and the mess. The COs were coming around, telling them where they’d be stationed next. Hollywood and Wolfman were going to the USS _ Farragut, _ and Merlin was staying on the _ Enterprise. _ Due to the part he played in the dogfight, Ice had gotten his choice of duty, but the decision wasn’t an easy one. He could go back to the _ Nimitz, _ and yet…

Seeing Goose the night before the dogfight had freaked him out more than words could say. Ice knew his encounter couldn’t have been real, but maybe it was a sign. A sign for him to take a break from combat, at least for a little while. Considering the battle he’d just barely come out of, it wasn’t like anyone could blame him. So he told Stinger that he wanted to go back to TOPGUN as an instructor.

And if Maverick was going there too, well…

Ice tried not to think too hard about it.

* * *

It felt strange to be back at Miramar as an instructor, especially since the kids he was teaching were barely younger than him, but Ice still knew he’d made the right decision. He liked teaching tactics and evasive maneuvers, and especially liked seeing the kids perform them correctly in the air. (And the promotion he got upon returning to TOPGUN certainly wasn’t unwelcome.)

The strange part, though, was now that he and Maverick were working together, their rivalry had dissipated into something almost resembling friendship — and now that Maverick wasn’t taking every opportunity to be a reckless idiot, Ice found himself actually starting to like the guy. Apparently miracles could happen.

He hadn’t seen Goose since that night on the _ Enterprise, _ and a week after arriving at Miramar, Ice had fully convinced himself that it was all a stress-fueled dream. He hadn’t told anyone about it — not Slider, not Hollywood and Wolfman, and certainly not Maverick — and figured that was that. Barring any more strange dreams about his fallen friend, he’d spend a couple more sessions at TOPGUN, get his head back on straight and rejoin Slider on the _ Nimitz. _He had it all planned out.

And then, three weeks before the end of the session, Ice came home from the O Club to see Goose Bradshaw standing in his living room.

“Well, goddamn,” he said stupidly, because really, what the hell else could he say? “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”

Goose shrugged. He rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands shoved into the pockets of his bomber jacket. “If it helps,” he said wryly, “me either.”

Ice moved forward slowly, not taking his eyes off the man — hallucination? dream? — before him for even a second. He sank into the couch and wished he were drunk. At least that way he’d have a convenient excuse to be seeing who he was seeing. “I was starting to hope I dreamt you.”

Goose put his hand over his heart, mock-offended. “What, Tom, you’re not happy to see me?”

“I would be if you were real.” _ And if it didn’t mean that I was losing my goddamn mind. _

“I am real,” Goose said. He came across the room, passing through the coffee table to stand directly in front of Ice. “As real as I can be, anyway.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Bradshaw. I went to your funeral. I saw them put you in the ground. You can’t be real; you’re _ dead.” _

“Obviously,” Goose said, and he raised his eyebrows. “Come on, Tom. You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of ghosts.”

That yanked him up short. “Ghosts.”

“Yep.”

“You’re a ghost.”

“Yeah. Well, uh, I think so.” Goose took a seat next to him, and it took every ounce of willpower Ice had not to flinch away. “I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Ice took a breath. Well, if it was a choice between him losing his mind and Goose actually being a ghost, he’d take the second option any day. (Not to mention the disappearing acts, and the way his skin looked almost translucent, and how his body was outlined in a soft white light, and how he’d passed through furniture like it wasn’t even there…)

But Ice didn’t get to where he was today by blindly believing everything he was told. He believed in logic, in hard evidence, and if this was going to continue, then he needed some proof. “Alright,” he said. “If you’re a ghost, then prove it.”

“Prove to you — uh, okay. Uh…” Goose got to his feet and moved backwards until he was standing in the middle of Ice’s television set. Then he did the same to Ice’s other sofa, and the coffee table again. “Is that enough? I mean, I could rattle some chains for you, write creepy poems on the walls, but—”

“No,” Ice said, because that was a direction he definitely did not want to go in. “That’s… that’s not what I meant.” The whole passing through solid objects thing was convincing, but it wasn’t what he needed. “Tell me something that you’ve never told me about yourself. Something that I would have absolutely no way of knowing.”

“Uh.” Goose’s brow furrowed and his lip stuck out slightly — the same expression he made whenever he was thinking hard about something. Ice knew that much. “Um — oh! My wife, Carole. You never met her. Her real name’s not Carole; that’s her middle name. Her real first name’s Susan, and her maiden name is Hyra.”

Susan Carole Bradshaw, formerly Susan Hyra. Ice closed his eyes and committed that name to memory. “Okay,” he said, opening his eyes again, “so how do—”

Goose was gone. Ice fought the urge to curse aloud, barely succeeding. But he had a direction to go in now. That was something.

He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he’d start figuring out if this was real or not. In the meantime, he had seven hours before classes began, and he intended to spend them asleep.

* * *

After classes let out the next day, Ice took a quick shower and drove to the public library. There, he charmed one of the librarians into giving him a private study room, into which he took with him three stacks of newspapers. If there was any proof that the man he kept seeing was real, he’d find it in there.

Finally, after over an hour of combing through the _ LA Times _ and the _ Orange County Register _ and finding nothing, Ice struck gold with a copy of the _ San Diego Union-Tribune. _ The obituaries were listed in alphabetical order by surname, and sure enough, at the top of the list was Bradshaw, Nicholas Edward. Words and phrases jumped out at him at random — _ born February 8, 1960. . .tragic accident at TOPGUN. . .graduated from Texas A&M University. . .achieved the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade (LTJG) in the Navy _— and then Ice saw it.

_ He is survived by his son, Bradley Bradshaw, and his wife, Susan Carole Bradshaw (née Hyra). _

Ice’s mouth went dry.

Shit.

* * *

“So,” Ice said. “You’re a ghost.”

Goose had been waiting for him in the living room, in the exact same spot he’d been standing in the night before. (He wore the same outfit too: a bomber jacket, a dark T-shirt with yellow print reading _NAVY,_ and faded jeans. Ice wondered if ghosts had any choice in how they appeared, or if this was the only outfit Goose could wear.) “Told you,” he said, but he looked more relieved than wry. “I’m glad you believe me.”

“I’m just glad I’m not losing my fucking mind,” Ice said honestly, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. Or any. “I…what happened, Nick? How is this even happening?”

Goose let out a heavy breath — for show, Ice assumed, since ghosts didn’t need to breathe. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “The last thing I remember was me and Mav flying through your jetwash—” Ice tried not to flinch. “—and now I’m here. Like this.” He gestured at himself. If Ice squinted, he could see right through him to the couch. “I didn’t know what was going on at first. I tried to find Carole, but she’d already gone back to Texas with Bradley, and I…I followed her there, but I couldn’t talk to her. She couldn’t see or hear me. So I tried coming back here, but I ended up back on the _ Enterprise.” _

Ice remembered that night well. “Why’d you come and see me?”

“To be honest, I was trying to find Mav,” Goose said, somewhere between sheepish and apologetic. “I found you by accident. I…didn’t expect you to be able to see me.”

Ice put himself in Goose’s shoes for a moment, wondering how strange it would have felt to spend nearly two weeks floating around aimlessly only for one of his old classmates to be able to see and hear him. “Where’ve you been since then? Where did you go?”

Goose started. “How long has it been since then?”

“Three weeks.”

Goose sank onto the couch like his legs couldn’t hold him. “Jesus,” he mumbled. He looked like he might be sick. “Three weeks. Holy shit.”

Ice gave Goose a moment to collect himself — and also so he could get his own thoughts in order — before he spoke up again. “So,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. He took a seat on the other sofa. “Uh, after the _ Enterprise, _did you just show up here?”

“Yeah.” Goose scrubbed a hand down his face, like he was forcing himself to remain calm. “Yeah, uh. I showed up here again — I don’t know how long ago. Three or four days, maybe? No watches in the afterlife, y’know. Hard to tell time.” He tried for a smile, but it flickered out before it got far. “So I wandered around, tried to see if anyone else could see me, and then I went to find you again.”

Ice could tell there were several missing pieces in Goose’s story, but he didn’t press. If Goose wanted to keep some things to himself, he was well within rights to do so.

“That night on the _ Enterprise, _you asked me why I was here. I didn’t know then, but I think I know now.” Ice looked up to meet Goose’s gaze, which was as serious as he’d ever seen it. “I think I have…unfinished business here, Tom. So to speak. I can’t…I can’t move on until I know it’s done, and I need your help.”

Ice sat back, trying to wrap his mind around that. Unfinished business. It was as good of an explanation as any, and made sense according to what he knew of ghosts from books and movies. Then again, those had all been fiction, but it wasn’t like there was real data he could compare Goose’s presence to. “Then I’ll help you,” he said. “What do you need?”

He was expecting _ I need you to take me to my grave, _ or _ I need you to pass along a message to my wife, _ or even _ I don't know, but I’m hoping you can help me figure it out. _What he didn’t expect was, “I need you to look after Mav for me.”

Ice stared. “What?”

“I said I need you to—”

“No, that’s not — I heard what you said. I just…” Ice’s voice trailed off as he weighed possible responses to Goose’s request, and eventually went with: “Why?”

Goose didn’t laugh. “Because I know him,” he said simply. “I know he hasn’t been holding up well since — since I died. And I need to know that he’s going to be alright before I…you know.” He made a gesture. “Go onto greener pastures.”

There was so much to unpack there that Ice didn’t even know where to start. “I thought he was doing okay,” he said honestly. “I mean, I figured he was still grieving, but…he seemed like he was doing better.”

Something passed over Goose’s face, too quick for Ice to analyze. “Have you talked to him?”

Ice felt his face go red. Aside from the occasional conversation in the halls, the classroom or the command locker room, no. He hadn’t really talked to Maverick at all. Since they’d returned to TOPGUN, Maverick had seemed like his normal self, and Ice hadn’t thought anything of it.

Goose gave a rough laugh, but there was no humor behind it. “Don’t worry about it,” he said heavily. “Mav’s always been good at putting on a show.”

Putting on a show. Ice felt a surprising amount of dismay at the thought. Was that what all of that was? Did he even know the real Maverick Mitchell at all?

“Mav’s my best friend,” Goose was saying, and Ice made an effort to tune back in. He was leaning forward in his seat, his hands clasped together. “I wouldn’t ask this of you unless I really needed your help. Please, Tom. Please say that you’ll look after him for me.”

Ice opened his mouth and then closed it, deciding to answer with a firm nod instead. Even if Goose hadn’t been his friend, there was no way he could refuse him like this. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll…I’ll keep an eye on him for you, Nick. I promise.”

Goose looked so relieved that it made Ice’s stomach twist uncomfortably. “Thank you,” he said. His voice was airier, thinner than usual; he was fading away. Ice opened his mouth to call for him to stay, but then Goose was gone, lost in the slivers of moonlight piercing the room, and Ice was alone again.

* * *

Ice spent the next few days watching Maverick closely, sizing him up just like he had when they’d both been students — and trying to figure out just how much of a show he was putting on for everyone else. After all, he reasoned, maybe Goose was wrong, and Maverick really was doing fine enough that Ice wouldn’t have to look after him.

They didn’t teach the same classes, so Ice had no idea what Maverick was like in the classroom, but they took the kids on hops together, and in the air, Maverick was still one of the best pilots Ice had ever seen: impulsive and a little dangerous, yes, but a worthy wingman nonetheless. On the ground, however, was where things started to differ.

Maverick didn’t join the other instructors for lunch in the lounge, waving off their invitations with jokes or excuses about having too much paperwork. Nor did he ever make appearances in the O Club once classes let out, even though just two months before he’d been there almost every night — though that might have just been because he wanted to flirt with Charlie, who’d broken up with him after Goose’s death and taken a new job in DC. And though Maverick still walked around TOPGUN like he was God’s gift to pilots everywhere, Ice noticed that Maverick didn’t talk to anybody other than Viper, Jester, and Ice himself, and even then, it was always about the kids or the job. It was all a facade, a shiny veneer made of snark and cocky grins designed to trick people into thinking everything was alright.

But everything wasn’t alright. Maverick was hurting, and although Goose hadn’t asked Ice to do anything more than keep an eye on him, Maverick Mitchell had (against all odds) become one of the few people that Ice cared about — and Ice knew he had to fix this.

He _ would _fix this, one way or another.

* * *

It was thirteen hundred hours, and Maverick’s office was empty. His desk was covered in folders, pens and messy stacks of papers, and Ice fought back the urge to clean it up into something resembling order. If this was going to work, he couldn’t do anything that would antagonize the target of his mission right out of the gate.

“Kazansky?”

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. “Mitchell,” Ice greeted, leaning back in his chair. Well, technically it was Maverick’s chair, but that was all semantics. “About time you got here.”

Maverick looked behind him, like he thought Ice might be talking to somebody else. Then, slowly and cautiously (not a tone he often used), he said, “This is my office, Ice.”

Ice didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “I know.”

“I…” Maverick looked so confused that Ice felt a little sorry for him. “What are you doing in my office?”

Ice shrugged, praying that the awkwardness he felt did not show in his expression. “I’m bored,” he said lightly. “Figured I’d join you for lunch.”

“Oh.” Some of Maverick’s confusion seemed to diminish at the answer, but he still looked surprised and (was it Ice’s imagination?) even a little pleased. “Uh, okay. Sure.”

“Thanks.” Ice watched Maverick take a stack of flight record printouts off one of the other chairs and place it on the floor, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Jesus, Mav. You know we’ve got filing cabinets for a reason, right?”

Maverick finished dragging the chair over to the desk — not saying a word about Ice being on the other side of it, interestingly enough — and shrugged. “Not everyone can be a neat freak like you, Kazansky,” he said. “Besides, it’s easier to find things this way.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ice said, not objecting to the neat freak comment. Considering the way he organized his own office, it was a title well deserved. “Even if your desk could give Wolf’s locker a run for its money.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Maverick said, but the indignation in his tone was belied by the smile spreading across his face. “At least none of the papers on my desk are porn mags.”

“Christ, I almost forgot about his obsession with those. No wonder he kept joking about having a hard-on all the time.”

“I heard he tried to sell one of his Playboys to Chipper for a hundred bucks,” Maverick said. “Claimed he had a special edition with a naked Madonna in it.”

“The hell you say. Did Chipper buy it?”

“Nah, but I heard Johnson did.”

“Johnson the air boss? Thought the only thing that got his rocks off was yelling at you for doing fly-bys.”

Maverick flipped him off, but he was laughing, so Ice counted it as a point in his favor. “What can I say, I’m a character.”

Ice shook his head, unable to keep himself from smiling. “Yeah,” he said wryly. “That’s for sure.”

* * *

It was easier, after that. Still awkward, since the few times they’d spoken to each other before had been fraught with tension or only about the job, but the awkwardness was receding with every passing day. Soon, Ice was having lunch with Maverick every afternoon — most often in Maverick’s office, sometimes in the lounge with the other instructors — and hanging out with him in the O Club in the evenings, where they talked about their days and made wry comments about their students and the civilians. Ice found that Maverick really wasn’t that bad once all of the arrogance and snark was stripped away; he was funny, and clever, and surprisingly insightful, and a genuinely good guy. Ice could see why Goose had liked him so much.

His life had been following a strange rhythm since he had returned to Miramar, but not an unpleasant one. His days were full of TOPGUN and paperwork and Maverick Mitchell, and then most nights he’d come home to find Goose Bradshaw waiting for him. Their main topic of conversation was Maverick, but Goose always branched out to other subjects — movies he’d seen, music he liked, stories about flight school and his wife and son — and sometimes Ice could almost forget that Goose was dead at all.

Two weeks passed. The end of the session was rapidly approaching; Bronco and Burbank were neck in neck with Tex and Whiplash for the trophy, the latter beating out the former by only half a point. The kids were getting reckless in their competitiveness, the kind of reckless that made Ice’s insides go cold, and during the afternoon hop they almost had another casualty on their hands. Ice hadn’t been in the air at the time, but he heard through the grapevine how Tex had abandoned his wingman to try and take down Jester, causing Mouse (said wingman) to get pissed off to the point that he nearly collided with Bronco’s plane. Everyone was alright, just shaken up, but Ice knew from personal experience how much worse it could have been, and the thought was anything but comforting.

Maverick left work too fast for Ice to talk to him, but he was in their usual booth at the O Club that night, nursing a beer. (And wasn’t that funny, that Ice had hung out with Maverick enough that they actually had a regular booth.) Ice sat down next to him, nudging Maverick’s foot under the table. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Maverick didn’t look up, just took another pull from his beer. The label on the bottle had been picked off, and all that remained of it was a heap of slightly wet scraps of paper. “How’s Bronco doing?”

“He’ll live,” Ice said, and immediately wished he could take it back because that was the stupidest fucking thing in the world to say considering who the man before him was. “Listen, Mav—”

“I was in the air when it happened, you know,” Maverick said, and Ice stiffened, because somehow that part he had not heard. But it was Friday, and that was Maverick’s day to take the kids up with Jester, and Ice wanted to swear. “I saw the whole thing, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.” He gave a rough, rueful laugh, without any ounce of humor. “I thought we had our fair share of people dying here, but I guess not.”

“He’s not dead, Mav,” Ice said. But that wasn’t the problem. Maverick always saw things in _ what-ifs _ and _ what-could-I-have-dones, _and the almost-incident of this afternoon had hit too close to home for him. Ice could see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the tightness of his jaw. “Mav. Look at me.”

Maverick looked up, and the pain in his eyes was so palpable that it made Ice’s chest ache like someone had kicked him there with steel-toed boots. “Tex did the same thing I did, Ice,” he said bitterly. “Abandoning his wingman for glory. What’s going to stop him from turning out just like me?”

The sentence fell out of his mouth before he could catch it and change it into something a little less honest:

“I think he’d be lucky to turn out like you.”

Maverick’s eyes met his, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that Ice had never seen before; it was like he was bracing himself for the punchline of a joke at his expense. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Ice said, and he meant it. God help him, he really meant it. “Besides,” and now his voice was lighter, softer; the kind of tone that only Maverick could draw out of him. “I’m your wingman. Can’t say I feel that abandoned.”

The ghost of a smile crossed Maverick’s face. “Is that right.”

“That’s right,” Ice said. “Even if your company’s a little gloomy for my liking tonight.”

He nudged Maverick’s foot under the table again to let him know he’d been kidding, and Maverick’s smile grew a little. “I’ll work on it for next time.”

“Good.” Ice raised his own beer bottle, which had fallen to the wayside since he’d sat down, and Maverick did the same. “Here’s to our students,” he said. “May these ones graduate soon…and may our next ones give us less gray hair.”

Maverick laughed, and they clinked their bottles together and drank. “Cheers.”

* * *

Two hours later, Ice came home and collapsed on the couch, thoroughly exhausted, a little buzzed, and not at all surprised to see Goose Bradshaw materialize into view, leaning against the doorframe. “Rough day?”

Ice scrubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he said heavily. “You’ve got no idea.”

He filled Goose in on everything: the heat of competition rising to the point where it made the air warp and sizzle, Tex’s rivalry with Bronco, and the near-incident of that afternoon. When he was done, Goose sat down on the remaining sofa, looking about as tired as Ice felt. “Jesus,” he said. Ice thought that was a pretty good way of summing it all up. “How’s Mav holding up?”

“Not great.” And wasn’t that just the understatement of the century. “He’s shaken up, but I think he’ll be okay. No one got hurt, so…”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Yeah.” Ice let out a breath. “I tried cheering him up; dunno how well it worked, but he seemed alright when I dropped him off at home.” Mostly alright, and a little tipsy, but better either of those options than how he’d looked in the O Club, all pain and too much vulnerability, like he needed someone to wrap him up in a blanket and hide him away from the world.

_ Jesus, I must be tipsier than I thought. _

“What did you say to him?”

“I, uh…” Ice felt his face go red. He didn’t want to reveal the specific details — what’d he said was private, and he wanted to keep it that way — so instead he said, “I told him that everything would be okay.”

Except he hadn’t. Not in those exact words, anyway, and now Ice wondered if he’d said all the wrong things. He probably had, damn him. _ I think he’d be lucky to turn out like you _ — he’d meant it, but had that been what Maverick needed to hear? What would Goose have said had their places been reversed?

The question left his lips before he could stop himself. “Why don’t you show yourself to Maverick?”

Goose’s head snapped up, a mix of surprise and fear flashing across his face. Tense silence stretched out for several seconds, during which Ice was on the verge of taking his question back, and then Goose said, “I did.”

“What?” Ice felt like he’d just been punched in the throat. “When?”

“After the Layton rescue.” Goose’s eyes were distant, fixed on some undefined, far away point. “He was on the gallery deck, and he threw my dog tags into the ocean.”

Ice was glad he’d had the foresight to sit down, otherwise he was pretty sure his knees would have given out on him. “So he…” His mouth was suddenly too dry for words. “So Mav saw you?”

“Only for a second. That was all I could do.” Goose looked down at his hands. Ice wondered if he could see through them too, or if they just looked solid to him. “I don’t think he really believed I was there,” he said quietly. “I think…I think he thought I was just…in his head, or something. But he looked so scared, and it scared me. I flickered out. And the next thing I knew I was back here.”

“Oh.” That was all Ice could think of to say, just ‘oh.’ “Did you…have you tried again? Since then?”

“A few times. Before I came to see you again.” A pause, and then, “I think I did this to him.”

Ice’s chest tightened. “What?”

“After the Layton rescue, when I…reappeared here, I went to go and find him. He saw me, and I said his name, and he — Jesus, he went so pale I thought he was going to faint. I tried again the next night, but every time he saw me he just looked so…so scared. I didn’t even talk to him; just the sight of me made him freak out.” Goose let out a long, shuddery breath. “And then I came back when I knew he couldn’t see me, and he was crying. He kept asking what he did to deserve seeing me again, what he’d done wrong.”

Jesus. Ice wanted to clamp his hands over his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to this anymore, but he was frozen. All he could do was listen.

“I think seeing me…it made him worse. He was getting better, and I set back his recovery. He cries at night, and he hasn’t slept much. Not since he saw me for the first time.” Goose’s voice broke. “I just wanted to talk to him. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t blame him, that it was going to be okay. I didn’t know Mav would — I thought he could handle it. But seeing me hurts him, and I don’t want to hurt him. So I can’t see him again.”

The room was quiet again. Outside on the street, a car passed by, the headlights shining through the living room window and going right through Goose, illuminating him until he was almost too bright to look at. Ice ducked his head, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry, Nick,” he whispered. It wasn’t anywhere near enough of an answer, but it was all he could do. “I wish I could help you.”

“You are, Tom.” Goose sounded as serious as sin, and still a little upset, but no less sincere. “You have been. And you’ve been helping Mav too.”

“Yeah?” He refused to let too much hope into his voice. “How do you know that?”

“Because,” Goose said. He was fading away again, which wasn’t surprising. It apparently took a lot of effort on Goose’s behalf to make himself visible, so these conversations of theirs never lasted very long. “He’s starting to smile again. And I know it’s because of you.”

* * *

Bronco and Burbank ended up winning after all. Tex and Whiplash gave them a run for their money all the way to the end, but they still lost by two points. Tex, from what Ice had heard, actually seemed pretty magnanimous about the loss; apparently the near-collision had scared him straight. Good.

Graduation was on Friday, and it was pretty much the same as Ice remembered it. Rows of naval aviators in their dress whites, beaming brightly enough to blind someone, and Viper and Jester’s speeches, and lots of champagne, and family members taking photographs every ten seconds. The instructors were gathered in one corner, no doubt doling out money from the betting pool that Ice hadn’t participated in, and Ice was about to make his way over to them when he spotted Maverick sitting down in one of the empty folding chairs, and decided to join him.

“Enjoying the party?”

A wry smile tugged at Maverick’s mouth. “I keep waiting for Viper to announce there’s a crisis situation.”

“Don’t give him any ideas.” Ice sat down in the chair next to Maverick, noticing (with a furrowed brow) the sheen of sweat on Maverick’s forehead, and the way his hands were trembling ever so slightly. “What’s with you?”

“It’s hot out.”

Ice frowned. “It’s seventy-five degrees, Maverick.”

Maverick shrugged. “Where I’m from, that’s hot.”

“Yeah? Where’s that?”

“Connecticut.” Just from the way Maverick said it, Ice knew his time in Connecticut had not been pleasant. “It was always either snowing, raining, or hailing over there, so this is a nice change of pace.”

“Yeah, you really look like you’re enjoying yourself.” Ice put a hand on Maverick’s shoulder, and was further concerned by the heat pouring off him, even through his dress whites. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Ice. Really.” Maverick glanced over at him and smiled, which looked tired but genuine. Ice didn’t buy it, but he wasn’t going to pry and make a scene in the middle of the graduation luncheon. Most likely Maverick was coming down with a cold — it was nearly flu season, and according to Goose, he hadn’t been sleeping much lately. “Got any plans for your week off?”

“I’m going home, actually. To my parents’ place.”

Maverick raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had parents.”

Ice rolled his eyes. “What, Mitchell, did you think I was hatched?”

“Figured the Navy created you in a government lab, actually,” Maverick said. “That was the rumor around here.” Before Ice could ask if that was true — he wouldn’t have put it past Chipper and Sundown to come up with a rumor like that — Maverick said, “Where do your parents live?”

“Santa Ana. Couple hours north of here.” Ice leaned back in his chair, smiling slightly. He hadn’t been home since his last shore leave, which had been three months before he’d come to TOPGUN. He and his parents had spoken on the phone and wrote each other letters since then, but it wasn’t the same as getting to see and hug and talk to them in person. “My sister was supposed to come up this weekend too, but she couldn’t get leave. I’ll see her at Thanksgiving.”

“She older or younger than you?”

“Older. Five years.” And taller by five inches, but Ice sensed that was fuel for mocking, so he kept it to himself. “Her name’s Taylor. She’s an Air Force pilot.”

“Air Force, huh.”

“Yeah. We’re all in the service — my whole family, I mean. My mom’s in the Marines, she’s a colonel. Taylor’s a captain now, and Dad’s an admiral.” Ice usually never talked about his family, but talking to Maverick about them was easy, somehow. Like breathing. Like flying. “Lot to live up to.”

“I can relate,” Maverick said quietly, and yeah, Ice bet he could. He let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair, and nodded at the ring on Ice’s right hand. “Your dad go to the Academy too?”

Ice stiffened. “No,” he said. Across the pavilion, a series of flashbulbs went off; Bronco and Burbank were having their pictures taken again. “Couldn’t get in on account of his…antecedents.”

Maverick frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

Christ. Was he really going to have to say it? “It means he couldn’t get in because he’s Jewish, Maverick.”

“Oh.” Ice could feel Maverick looking at him, looking him over. It was the same stare everyone gave him once they found out he was Jewish: surprised, uneasy and mildly curious, like he was some unknown specimen at the zoo. He waited for Maverick to say the usual well-meaning but still demeaning comments — _ but you don't look like a Jew _ was always a favorite — but all Maverick said was, “That’s bullshit.”

Ice’s muscles tensed to the point where he thought they might snap. If Maverick said something stupid, then his promise to Goose aside, Ice would not hesitate to put him in his place. “What is?”

“That they didn’t let your dad into the Academy because of that. That’s bullshit.”

The tension left him in a surprised exhale. “Yeah,” he said, quietly relieved. “It is.” The students and their families were all heading over to the tables set up on the other end of the pavilion, and Ice stood up. “C’mon, let’s go. I want to get a good seat.”

Maverick stood too, swaying slightly and grabbing onto the back of the chair in front of him for balance. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing. “Stupid sun,” he muttered under his breath, and Ice fought the urge to laugh. “Alright, alright. Let’s go.”

* * *

After the graduation luncheon, Ice went home and gathered an overnight bag, and drove the three hours — normally two, but the traffic added an hour — up to Santa Ana, California. His father made roast chicken and rice for dinner, Ice’s favorite, and his mother fussed over him like he was a child and asked question after question about TOPGUN, and the details of the crisis situation over the Indian Ocean, and how Slider was doing_._ (At least they both knew he was gay and therefore didn’t bother asking about his romantic life.) Still. He’d missed his parents a lot, and it was good to see them again.

It was a good weekend. He helped his mother around the house, went with his father to buy presents for Taylor’s upcoming birthday. On Saturday night, he went out with some of his friends from high school and swapped stories about the old and the new; half of them were married now, or engaged to be married, and Christ, did that make him feel old. And on Sunday night, he kissed his parents goodbye, promised to call (and to visit at least once more before Thanksgiving) and headed back to Miramar.

Traffic was a bitch, and by the time he got home, it was past ten o’clock, and Ice decided to call it a night. He took a quick shower, changed into an undershirt and boxers, and climbed into bed. He turned over, intending to switch off the lamp on his nightstand — and when he saw Goose Bradshaw’s ghost standing beside him, the scream that tore out of him could have woken the dead.

“Jesus Christ!” Ice scrambled back so fast that he nearly fell off the bed. His heart was hammering against his chest with enough force to crack his ribs, and he was breathing like he’d just run from one end of San Diego to the other. How long had he been standing there? “Jesus _Christ,_ Bradshaw, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Goose did not look even remotely sorry. “Tom,” he said, and he floated backwards so that he stood at the foot of Ice’s bed. “I need your help.”

Ice tipped his head back so it rested against the wall and mentally asked God for patience. “My help.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to take steady breaths and calm down. “With what? With Maverick? He’s fine, I just saw him on Friday.”

“He’s not fine,” Goose said, and it was only now that Ice’s heart rate was returning to a normal pace that he noticed that Goose was fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot like he physically couldn’t stay still. “He’s sick.”

“Sick?” For a second Ice had no idea what Goose was talking about, but then the answer hit him and it was all he could do to keep from groaning aloud. “Yeah, he was coming down with a cold at graduation. Probably a twenty-four hour bug or something, it’s not a big deal—”

“Do you think I’d come here in the middle of the night if this wasn’t a big deal?” Goose snapped. He was fidgeting even worse than before, and he was pacing from one end of the room to the other like the walls couldn’t hold him. “This is serious, Kazansky. He’s sick. It’s really, really bad.”

Ice was fully engaged now. “How do you know?”

“I could feel him. His soul, it — it was crying out, it was in pain, but it was so weak. It was like it didn’t even have the strength to be tethered to his body anymore. And I can’t even — I can’t even help him.” Goose let out a strangled sob and scrubbed a hand down his face before running it through his hair, which stuck up at odd angles. “Please, Tom. You have to help him for me. _ Please. _ I can’t lose him like this.”

Every protest he could think of died on his tongue before he could voice it, and he gave a tight nod. “Okay,” he said quietly, but no less determined. “Alright, I’ll do it. Just let me get dressed.”

* * *

Five minutes later, Ice arrived at Maverick’s house, half-dressed in the first clothes he’d found and inwardly cursing every decision he’d ever made that had led him to this exact moment. He fumbled for the spare key that he knew Maverick kept under the doormat — honestly, it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten robbed yet — and let himself in, scanning the house for signs of life.

Maverick’s bike keys were on the front table, which at least meant he was in here somewhere, and Ice followed a trail of haphazardly discarded clothing into the living room, where he found Maverick passed out on the couch in nothing but his underwear. His skin was hot to the touch, like an open flame, and his breathing was a slow, metallic-sounding wheeze. Goose was right. This was bad. This was really, really bad.

“Maverick!” Ice grabbed Maverick by the shoulder, shaking him the way he knew he should never shake a sick person, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Maverick — goddamn it, Mitchell, open your eyes; look at me!”

Maverick stirred, but he didn’t wake up, and panic took Ice by the throat in a grip tight enough to bruise. This was no twenty-four hour bug; this was far worse. Probably pneumonia. Damn it all. Promise to Goose or no, Ice never should have stood by and let things get this bad. And now he had to fix it.

Before he could change his mind, Ice lifted Maverick up off the couch and carried him into the bedroom, setting him down carefully on the bed. Then he went into the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine cabinet for Tylenol and aspirin which, thankfully, Maverick actually had. After tucking the pill bottles into the pockets of his jacket, Ice went into the kitchen and filled a plastic cup with water from the sink, which was crowded with dirty dishes and the occasional empty takeout container. _ Goddamn it, Maverick. _

Ice returned to the bedroom and placed all of the items he’d gathered on the nightstand. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to organize his thoughts. Okay. First he had to get Maverick’s fever under control, and that meant he had to get Maverick awake and coherent enough to drink the water and take the pills. But what was he supposed to do if he couldn’t get Maverick to do that? Would he have to call an ambulance?

“The hell?”

Ice’s head snapped up so fast he swore he could hear his neck crack.

Maverick was awake. He was looking around the room, dazed and bleary-eyed, like he had no idea where he was. “What the hell?” His voice was strained and thick, so hoarse that Ice could barely understand him. “Where’m I?”

“In your bedroom.” Ice forced himself to keep his voice calm and soothing, the way that Goose would sound had he been there. “You passed out on the couch.” While Maverick processed that, Ice opened one of the pill bottles and shook out two Tylenol, which he placed next to the cup of water. “Can you sit up?”

“Uh huh.” Maverick tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but the pneumonia had left him weak enough that he ended up collapsing back on the mattress. “...Never mind.”

Ice sighed, because of course Maverick would never make anything easy for him. “I’m going to help you sit up,” he told Maverick, who didn’t seem to be listening. What else was new. So he placed one of his arms under Maverick’s legs and the other under Maverick’s back and lifted him up, setting him down so his back was resting against the pillows propped up against the headboard. He drew the covers up to Maverick’s waist and said, “This comfortable?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Good,” Ice said, and was surprised to discover he meant it. He took the cup of water from the nightstand and held it out to Maverick, who recoiled like Ice had offered him turpentine. “Mav, come on, you need to drink this.”

“Don’t want to.”

“I’m not asking you, Maverick, I’m telling you. Drink the water. Come on, it’ll make you feel better.”

Maverick eyed the water suspiciously, and then his gaze fell on Ice. His forehead creased. “Who’re you?”

“Your guardian fucking angel.” Ice’s patience was firmly at an end. “Now shut up and let me help you.”

Miracle of miracles, Maverick shut up, and Ice helped him drink the water. He was afraid that Maverick wouldn’t be able to swallow the pills, but those went down easily enough too. Once that was done, Maverick slumped back against the pillows, and Ice sat down next to him in the remaining space.

“This is Hell, isn’t it,” Ice said at last, not to anyone in particular. “I died during the Layton rescue and now I’m in Hell, and this is my punishment. Because no actual human being could possibly be this stupid.” He glared at Maverick, who was lying flat on his back again and staring up at the ceiling. “Are you? Are you so fucking stupid you gave yourself pneumonia?”

Maverick coughed, a wet, thick sound.

Ice groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Alright,” he said. “Alright, I’m going to call an ambulance. Try not to die while I’m gone.”

He stood up, intending to go back into the kitchen — where he was pretty sure he’d seen a phone beneath all of that mess — but something grabbed his wrist before he could get far. Maverick’s hand. Maverick was holding onto him, staring at Ice like he could see right through him, and it sent a shiver down Ice’s spine. “Don’t go,” he whispered. Tears threatened to spill over his eyelashes. “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Ice’s throat was uncomfortably tight, but he managed a nod. “Okay,” he said, just as softly. “Okay, I’ll stay.” He sat back down, and took Maverick’s hand in his, squeezing it — not tight, but just to let him know. “Feel that, Mav? I’m right here.”

“I feel it,” Maverick mumbled, and then he fell asleep.

* * *

For the next three days, Ice stayed at Maverick’s side, forcing fluids and Tylenol down his throat, keeping a cold washcloth on his brow in an effort to mitigate the fever. Occasionally, Maverick would surface long enough to let Ice take him into the bathroom, or try to get him to eat something, but he was never coherent enough to know what was going on, or where he was. Sometimes he’d start shaking so hard he seemed ready to fly apart at the seams; other times he would wake up in the middle of the night whimpering and pleading for help. Once, Ice woke up to see Maverick on the floor, trying to crawl to the bathroom, and when he’d tried to help him up Maverick had thrown up on him.

And still, Ice stayed.

While Maverick slept, Ice did his best to get the house back in some working order. He did a load of laundry, and then a second. He cleaned up the bathroom and the living room. He washed and put away all of the dishes. He threw out empty takeout boxes and pizza boxes with desiccated slices of pizza in them, and cleaned out the fridge. By the time he was done, the house looked almost liveable again. With luck, Maverick wouldn’t undo all of his hard work once he got better.

Goose showed up late on Thursday night, late enough that it was practically Friday morning. Ice was so used to him appearing out of thin air by now that he didn’t even flinch. “Hey,” he said. His voice was slightly hoarse from disuse, and he shifted, sitting up straighter in his chair. Jesus, he was tired. “About time you showed up, Bradshaw.”

“Wasn’t able to before.” Goose didn’t even look at him; he only had eyes for Maverick, who was asleep again. The moonlight streaming in through the window illuminated Maverick’s face, casting the rest of the room into shadow. He reached out and brushed his hand over Maverick’s forehead, and though Goose couldn’t make contact, Ice knew his touch was cool and soothing. More than Ice’s could ever be. “You stayed with him.”

“Yeah, well.” Ice shrugged, somewhat uncomfortable at how soft and surprised Goose sounded. “Like you said, he’s sick.” _ And he asked me to stay. _ “I wasn’t going to leave him alone.”

Goose glanced over at him, like he was sizing him up, and Ice’s spine straightened. “Still,” he finally said, just as quiet. He retracted his hand from Maverick’s brow and moved back, taking a seat on the foot of the bed — as best as he could, anyway. “Thanks, Tom. I owe you one. A big one.”

“Don’t mention it.” He might have gotten used to the idea of Goose being a ghost and hanging around, but the idea of Goose owing him a favor didn’t sit right with him. “If anything, Mav’s the one who owes me. Especially since he threw up on me.”

“Jesus, did he really?”

“Unfortunately.”

Goose cackled. Ice didn’t find it particularly funny — it’d taken him two hours and an entire bottle of dish detergent to scrub the stains out of his pants — but Goose’s laughter was contagious enough that he managed a slight smile. “Well,” he said, wiping away a few tears of mirth, “I’d say that constitutes at least one free round of drinks.”

“Here’s hoping.”

Goose opened his mouth, presumably to crack another joke, but then his gaze snapped to his right and he stood up, backing away from the bed. He looked — well, for lack of a better description — like he’d seen a ghost, and then he disappeared. Ice was about to ask what the hell was the matter when he heard a noise, a small sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

Ice was on his feet at once. “Maverick?”

Maverick was stirring, his head moving from side to side on the pillow, and at the sound of his name, he grimaced, his hand coming up to rub at his eyes. “M’here,” he mumbled. “Wha’ happened?”

Ice rested the back of his hand on Maverick’s forehead, and he felt a stupid grin spread across his face. The fever had broken. Thank Christ. “You’ve been sick,” he said. “But your temperature’s almost back to normal. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Maverick blinked blearily up at him, and his brow furrowed. “Ice?”

“Yeah.” He realized he was still touching Maverick, and he quickly drew his hand back. “Yeah, Mav, it’s me.”

The answer didn’t seem to lessen his confusion. “Why’re you here?”

Somehow, Ice knew that revealing Maverick had asked him to stay wouldn’t go over well — Maverick didn’t seem like the type of guy who was willing to admit to moments of vulnerability — so he tried for a shrug and some levity. “Well, I wasn’t going to leave you to choke on your own vomit.”

“You…you were here the whole time?”

Something about the way Maverick was looking at him made Ice’s stomach swoop like he’d missed a step going down the stairs. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I was.”

Comprehension dawned on Maverick’s face, followed by something that could have either been awe or fear. Either way, the latter was gone too quickly for Ice to analyze. “So, uh…” Maverick swallowed. His eyes never left Ice’s face. “Are...are you going to leave now?”

That brought him up short. He could go, and leave Maverick instructions about how much water to drink and what pills to take and that there was food in the fridge for when he was up for it. He was anxious to use his own shower and sleep in his own bed, and yet… “Nah,” he said. “Too late to drive home. Might as well stay ‘til morning.”

Maverick didn’t react outwardly, but Ice could tell he was relieved. “Sure,” he said, like he was doing Ice a favor. “That’s fine.”

“Thanks.” Ice headed over to the pillow and extra blankets on the floor at the foot of the bed, where he’d been sleeping for the last few days. For a moment, he debated grabbing his things and moving into the living room, but the burn of exhaustion pulling him under made anything but going to sleep right then and there seem like too much of a hassle. He stretched out on the floor, pulling the blankets up to his chest. “Night.”

He could still feel Maverick staring at him, but Ice was asleep before he could ask why.

* * *

Ice stuck around Maverick’s house for another day, wanting to be sure that Maverick was well and truly on the mend before he left. Maverick was pale and still slept more than he was awake and couldn’t make it to the bathroom without sweating like he’d just run a marathon, but he was better. He was going to be alright. And after Maverick assured him of that for the seventh time, Ice left with instructions for Maverick to keep taking the pills and eat some of the soup in the fridge — and upon arriving at home, he made dinner, took a shower, and passed out for the next sixteen hours straight.

The new session started on Monday, and even with the increased workload, Ice made time to hang out with Maverick almost every night — excusing it with _ don’t want you dying on me, Mitchell, might as well keep an eye on you _ — at the O Club, at either of their houses, wherever. Maverick didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he looked just as quietly thrilled as he had when Ice had invited himself to lunch that first time. Ice didn’t quite know what to make of that, but he was just happy that Maverick was happy.

Ice usually went to the grocery store on Wednesdays after work, and it was a nice enough fall day that he let the windows down and took the scenic route home. He ended up driving by a few new restaurants, a bookstore (where he’d definitely stop by again), and an airport, where — to his surprise — he saw Maverick on the spur of land on the jetty, standing beside his motorcycle and watching the planes take off.

He parked the car and exited it, stopping a few feet behind Maverick and clearing his throat. “Hey.”

Maverick turned around. “Hey,” he said. He didn’t look displeased, just puzzled. “What’re you doing here?”

“Saw your bike here. Figured I’d say hi.” Ice hefted the six pack of beer he’d taken with him from the car. Stella Artois, which he wasn’t a huge fan of but knew Maverick liked. That had seemed reason enough to buy it. “Want one?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Sure,” he said. “Have a seat.”

They sat down on the grass next to Maverick’s motorcycle. The sun was setting, and the runway was awash in bright lights, showing the planes in the sky the way home. “So,” Ice said. He took one of the beers from the six pack and used the fabric of his shirt to twist off the cap before handing it to Maverick, whose face flushed when he took it. “You come here often?”

Maverick snorted. “Once in a while, yeah. When I need to clear my head.” His fingers traced the rim of the bottle, but his gaze was fixed on the runway. “I used to come here with my dad. Not here,” he hastily added. “Just to places like this, to watch the planes take off. He used to say I’d be up there someday, and we’d fly together.”

Ice took a sip of his beer, choosing his next words carefully. He didn’t know the whole story of what had happened to Maverick’s father — only that he was, apparently, some kind of traitor — but knew it had to be a sensitive subject. “How old were you when he died?”

“Four.” Maverick’s eyes dropped to his drink, like it held the secrets of the universe. “Mom died not long after. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“S’alright.” He let out a heavy breath. “She wasn’t much of a mom, anyway. Not in the end.”

Ice’s grip on the bottle tightened. “Why?”

“She…went distant, after my dad died. Just sat up in her room, listening to her records over and over again.” Maverick managed a laugh, but it came out bitter, self-deprecating. “She said looking at me was too painful because I reminded her of my dad.”

Ice felt like his heart had crawled up his throat to choke him. He wanted to say something, but it was that time with Goose all over again; all he could do was listen.

“Goose was the first one to see me for who I was, you know,” Maverick said. His voice was trembling. “The first one who ever bothered to get to know me outside of the fact that I was Duke Mitchell’s son.” He swiped a hand under his eyes. “Everyone else thought I was a disappointment in comparison.”

The words actually hurt, a physical ache in his chest at the quiet resignation of it all. “There’s nothing disappointing about you, Mav.”

Maverick didn’t even look at him. “Sure there is. There’s always something.”

“No,” Ice said. “There’s not. Anyone who ever told you otherwise, they just…never got to know you. And you don’t need people like that in your life anyway.”

No. The kind of people Maverick needed in his life were people who loved him unconditionally, every part of him. People who helped and comforted him when he was down, who laughed at his jokes and made him smile, who treated him the way he deserved to be treated. People like Goose.

_ I need you to look after Mav for me. _

Ice hadn’t understood then, but he did now. It wasn’t just that Maverick was hurting because of Goose’s death; he’d been hurt his entire life. And now that Goose wasn’t there to look out for him, Maverick needed somebody who would give him the unconditional love and support he deserved. Goose had been asking Ice to be that somebody — and even though Ice was the worst possible replacement for Goose Bradshaw in this department, he would try. He cared enough about Maverick to try.

So lost in his thoughts was Ice that he didn’t notice the plane heading in his and Maverick’s direction — in fact, he didn’t notice the goddamn thing at all until it flew right over his head with the engine roaring, and Ice startled so badly that he swore and spilled his beer all over his jeans.

“Shit!” Ice mopped ineffectively at his pants with a napkin, cursing under his breath. He _ liked _ these jeans, and the way the stain was spreading made it look like he’d pissed himself. “God fucking damn it. Perfect.”

Maverick, meanwhile, was laughing so hard that he sounded dangerously close to choking. “Wow,” he managed. There were actually tears in his eyes. “Nice, Kazansky. Real slick.”

Ice wanted to bury his face in his hands and never come out again, but he had just enough dignity left to abstain. “Yeah, yeah, Mitchell, laugh it up.”

“Believe me, I am,” Maverick said, still giggling like an idiot, but he was smiling now too. A genuine, open smile, one that Ice had never seen him wear before. It made him look alive, like the weight of the world was no longer on his shoulders, and…happy. He looked happy. If temporarily losing his cool was what it took to elicit such a smile, then Ice would do it every day for the rest of his life.

No sooner had this thought passed through his mind than did his stomach suddenly plummet.

Ice thought of Maverick’s smile, and how Ice could pinpoint the sound of Maverick’s laugh in a crowded room, and _ I think he’d be lucky to turn out like you,_ and the way his heart had leapt when Maverick’s fever had broken, and then Ice thought, _ Oh. _

_ Oh no. _

* * *

Ice was thirteen when he figured out that he was different. Unlike the boys in his class, he didn’t want to date girls, didn’t want to kiss them; truth be told, he didn’t even think they were that pretty. And when Jake Stevens started dating Emma McIntyre, he wasn’t jealous of Jake for being the first boy in their grade to get a girlfriend, he was jealous of _ Emma _for getting to date Jake. He’d asked his older sister Taylor about what that meant for him, that he only liked boys; she’d gone quiet before saying that it was fine with her, but some other people wouldn’t be okay with it, and he ought to keep it to himself.

He took her advice. In high school, he played varsity volleyball and was captain of the lacrosse team; he was one of the popular kids for the first time in his life. He dated a few girls for show, even took one to prom his senior year, and when his friends asked why none of those relationships ever worked out, he just shrugged and claimed he got bored. Better to look arrogant than have anyone figure him out. (And no one but his sister ever got to know about the time Aaron Powers got drunk at one of their post-game victory parties, pulled him into the bathroom and kissed him hard — or how Ice had thought about it for months even though Aaron never mentioned it again.)

He graduated second in his class and was accepted to the Academy. There, it was easy to spot who was good to go, who was interested. He lost his virginity to one of the guys in his dorm building, and every encounter he had after that was casual, no strings attached. Nobody at Annapolis was looking for a relationship, even if Ice was.

Then there was NAS Pensacola, and Bill Cortell, and Ice thought things would be different. Bill, who liked soap operas and The Doors and Ice’s sense of humor, who kissed him behind the library like he wanted to slow down time and, his pupils dilated from lust, asked Ice to take him to bed. The next few weeks were the best of Ice’s life; he was so in love that every moment with Bill made him feel like he was floating on air. And then he’d brought up the idea of introducing Bill to his parents, only for Bill to go red and haltingly explain that he’d never meant for this to be anything but casual. Just two friends having fun together, relieving some tension. That night, Ice locked himself in the bathroom and screamed into a towel until his voice went hoarse.

It took him the next four years to piece the shards of his heart back together. By that time, he was no longer Tom Kazansky, he was the Iceman, and he didn’t believe in love or relationships or happy endings. None of that was ever going to happen and he might as well get used to it.

Apparently he hadn’t learned his lesson, because now he was in love again, and it hurt even worse than the time with Cougar. Maybe because he already knew that he was going to get his heart broken, and getting his heart broken by Maverick Mitchell was not going to be something he could recover from. So Ice resolved to do what he did best: hide his feelings where no one else could see them, and hope to God they went away.

* * *

As the days following his revelation went on, Ice knew he was fucked. He’d tried to tamp down his feelings, but they just got stronger, more persistent and aggressive. He hated not being in control of himself, and he hated Maverick even more for doing this to him. God, how Ice hated him. He hated how he couldn’t stop thinking about him, and how seeing Maverick at work every day made his heart do Immelmann turns in his chest.

And then Maverick would say something, or make a joke, or smile, and Ice didn’t hate him. Then he loved every fucking thing about him. Not even _ him, _just things about him. Like how he was convinced ‘boughten’ was the past participle of ‘bought’. Or the time he’d tried to twirl his pen over his fingers like Ice and ended up smacking himself in the face. Or how he sometimes sang in the shower after the hops, and laughed whenever Ice smirked and told him not to quit his day job. Or the curve of his neck. Or the cologne he wore, the same one that the guys from Annapolis would wear when they were hoping to score with one of the girls from Arundel Community College. Ice hated that cologne, but when Maverick wore it, Ice could not ignore how much it turned him on.

At those moments, it felt like the right thing to do — hell, the _ only _thing to do — was to push Maverick up against the nearest wall and kiss him, and taste him, and enjoy every single infuriating breath he took.

That was when Ice made an excuse to leave the O Club, or Maverick’s office, or the command locker room, or wherever they were hanging out. It probably made him look like a socially-stunted idiot, but better that than for Maverick to figure him out and break his heart.

Another week passed. Flash and Falcon were currently in the lead for the trophy, but Jazz and Digger and Harvard and Harlequin were both close behind. Ice was grateful for the distraction that the competition heating up provided; it meant he didn’t have time to do anything but paperwork and grading tests and analyzing the flight record printouts. Unfortunately, it meant that that was all Maverick had time for too, and when Maverick suggested they do their paperwork together to save time, it wasn’t like Ice could say no. 

“I hate this,” Maverick announced, sometime past nine in the evening. He was sprawled on his couch with his arm draped over his forehead, like one of the heroines from the romance novels Ice’s mother (and Ice) secretly loved. “This is bullshit.”

“What is?”

“The paperwork.” Maverick gestured at the stack of papers on the coffee table next to him. “I mean — Jesus, Ice, we’re _ pilots. _We shouldn’t have to deal with this shit.”

“That’s what we get for taking this job.” Ice shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not that bad. Look at all the numbers, the data. There’s something poetic about it, you know?”

“You know, Kazansky, sometimes I’m glad you and I didn’t go to the same high school. I would’ve hated seeing you get shoved into lockers every day.”

“That’s big talk considering you’re the only one of us who’s small enough to fit in one.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Maverick said, but he was grinning. “Low blow.”

“I just call it like I see it.” Ice found himself grinning too, like their emotions were linked together by puppet strings. He forced himself to return his attention to the test on his lap, and he’d just picked up his pen again when a wadded up piece of paper bounced off his shoulder. “What the hell, Mitchell?”

“I’m bored,” Maverick said. He was crumpling up one of the flight record printouts from last week, still smirking like the cat that ate the canary. “Think fast.” He tossed the ball of paper at Ice again, and Ice jerked back, but that didn’t stop it from hitting him in the center of his forehead. Maverick’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit.”

“Well put,” Ice said. He grabbed the ball of paper from the floor, along with a stack of old printouts of his own. “You’re dead.”

Ice threw the paper at Maverick, hitting him in the chest, and dodged Maverick’s next salvos while assembling his own. They were both acting like children, throwing paper at each other and laughing like idiots, but it was the most that Ice had laughed with anyone — had had fun with anyone, period — in a long, long time.

Maverick ran out of paper first, and because he seemed to continually insist on flying by the seat of his pants, decided to rush at Ice in an attempt to steal Ice’s supply. Ice was not about to let that happen; he yanked Maverick away and, although it took some effort, managed to pin him by his wrists to the rug. “There,” he said. He was panting from exertion, and grinning so hard it kind of hurt. “Radar lock.”

Maverick laughed, but there was a strange, breathless edge to it. Ice didn’t understand why until he realized they were abdomen to abdomen, his knees around Maverick’s hips, the closest they’d ever been to each other. He could see the sheen of sweat on Maverick’s forehead, could count every one of Maverick’s eyelashes. He could close the distance between them in a heartbeat, could press his lips to Maverick’s and—

Ice pulled back so fast his head spun. He tasted copper in the back of his throat and felt like he was going to throw up. “Sorry,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse and foreign to his own ears. “I, uh. I should go. It’s getting late.”

It wasn’t even close to late, but Maverick didn’t protest. Didn’t say a word, actually; just stared up at Ice with wide eyes and his mouth half open as Ice gathered his papers together and left without looking back.

* * *

Ice knew most of the symptoms that came with being hungover — the headaches, the dizziness, the fatigue — had to do with being dehydrated, and that the best way to avoid getting hungover was to drink a lot of water between whatever alcohol you were consuming. But after he’d gotten home last night, he’d been in an uncharacteristically self-destructive mood, and water had been the last thing on his mind when he’d found the six-pack of beer in the back of his refrigerator.

Now, though. He regretted that now.

It was late afternoon judging by the sunlight streaming through the blinds, and Ice buried his head in his hands with a groan. Everything hurt, and his mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died. He hadn’t been hungover like this in years, and it just figured that it was all because of Maverick. Goddamn him. Goddamn it all.

Ice felt marginally better after he took a shower and put on fresh clothes, then knocked back a cup of coffee, an aspirin, and a few pieces of toast. But he could tell that this hangover wasn’t going to go away easily, and it’d probably be at least another day before he was back to normal. He tried to distract himself by cleaning the house — with all the work he’d had to do lately, housework had fallen to the wayside — but that just reminded him of how he’d cleaned Maverick’s house when Maverick had had pneumonia, and how Ice hadn’t minded at all. Jesus, he’d already been so gone and he hadn’t even realized it.

And last night, they’d been so close to each other, closer than they’d ever been before. God. What would have happened if Ice hadn’t come to his senses in time? If he’d kissed Maverick, would Maverick have let him? He’d had Maverick pinned, and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds; he couldn’t have escaped easily—

No. No, he didn’t want that. Ice didn’t want his first kiss with Maverick to be forced. He wanted it to be good; he wanted Maverick to enjoy it. He wanted to treat Maverick the way he deserved to be treated.

Then again, what did it matter? None of that was ever going to happen anyway. Maverick was straight, and he didn’t like Ice like that. His feelings were going to go unreciprocated for the rest of his life and he needed to get used to it.

When he finally went to bed around midnight, he was exhausted all the way down to his bones and wanted nothing more than to collapse on top of the covers and sleep the rest of his hangover away. Instead, he saw Goose waiting for him, floating cross-legged over his mattress, and didn’t even try not to tip his head back and groan. “You really couldn’t have come at a worse fucking time, could you?”

Goose raised his eyebrows, but otherwise seemed unfazed. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” he said. “What’s with you, Kazansky?”

“Nothing.” _ Everything. _Ice collapsed on the bed and buried his face in a pillow, taking a deep breath as best as he could. He knew Goose didn’t deserve to be snapped at, but as this whole situation was (in a roundabout way) Goose’s fault, Ice didn’t feel too inclined to apologize. “Look, I don’t feel like talking today, so just…come back another time, alright?”

A pause. “Alright,” Goose said slowly. Ice didn’t have to see his face to know that he probably looked confused as hell. “What’s the matter? You and Mav get into a fight or something?”

Jesus Christ, of all the fucking topics to land on. “No,” he said, but it was such an obvious lie that he felt the need to push past it just so Goose wouldn’t call him out on his bullshit. “Alright, fine. Yes, we did.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a fucking idiot and I hate him.”

“You don’t hate him,” Goose said dismissively, but then he paused, and this time the silence went on for so long that Ice looked up from his pillow, sure that Goose had disappeared. But Goose was still there, and he was standing at the foot of the bed and staring at Ice, his eyes wide like he’d just had an epiphany. “You don’t hate him,” he repeated. “You like him.”

To his horror, Ice felt his face go hot, and he tried to cover it up by feigning ignorance. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh my God, you _ do.” _Goose’s eyes were the size of quarters. “You like him. You like Maverick.”

Ice’s world went into a flat spin, and for a moment, he was sure that he was going to faint. He opened his mouth, desperate to say something, _ anything, _that would convince Goose otherwise, but for the first time in his life, his mind was completely, utterly blank. “Look, Bradshaw,” he began, his voice shaky with what he refused to admit was fear, but Goose cut him off.

“Jesus, Tom, are you okay?”

“Am I _ okay?” _ His hands were trembling and his pulse was roaring in his ears louder than the engine of any F-14. Yes, fainting was definitely not out of the question. “You — you just—”

“Oh,” Goose said, like he’d just come to another realization. _“Oh,_ you think — Tom, you know that doesn’t matter to me, right? That you like men? Besides, even if it did, I’m dead.” He gestured down at himself. “Not like I can tell anybody.”

Of all the fucking things Goose could have said, that actually succeeded in making Ice feel better. Right. Goose was a ghost, and he couldn’t tell anyone. He felt his heart slow to a normal rhythm and clasped his hands together to keep them from outwardly trembling. His career was still safe, and so was he. Thank Christ. “Well,” he managed. “I know now.”

Another pause, this time longer than the two it succeeded. Then Goose cleared his throat. “So,” he said, and he sounded so genuinely excited that it threw Ice for a loop. “Have you told Mav yet?”

Ice almost choked on his own tongue. “Are you insane? Of course not!”

Goose’s face fell. “What? Why not?”

Ice stared. Was Goose serious? “Because there’s no point. It’d never work out between us.”

“Why?” Goose’s expression darkened, like he was gearing up for a fight. Not for the first time, Ice thought that the callsign Mother Goose suited him perfectly. “What’s wrong with Maverick? You don’t think he’s good enough for you or something?”

“No!” Ice wanted to tear his hair out. “That’s not what I meant. He’s — I meant that there’s no point in doing anything about this because he’s not…he’s not like me.”

Goose didn’t seem to get it. “What does that even mean, not like you? Handsome? Smart?”

“Mav’s smart,” Ice said, immediately defensive.

“I know,” Goose said, just as defensively. “So what’s the problem?”

“Oh, for the love of — he’s _ straight, _ Bradshaw. How’s that for a problem?”

Now it was Goose’s turn to stare at him. “Jesus,” he said, surprised. “Really, Tom? That’s what’s stopping you?”

“Well, since it’s a pretty fucking insurmountable problem, Bradshaw, then yeah, that’s what’s stopping me.”

Goose scrubbed a hand down his face. “Tom,” he said at last, like Ice was being an idiot, and Ice’s hackles automatically raised in preparation for a fight. “He’s not going to reject you. He’s my best friend — I know him. That’s not what’s going to happen.”

“Yeah? And how exactly do you know that?”

Goose’s mouth opened and closed several times. “I can’t tell you,” he said lamely. “I just...do.”

Ice groaned, burying his face back into the pillow. “Thanks,” he said bitterly. He could feel Goose’s stare on his back, but Ice forced himself to ignore it, and the pity that was no doubt within. That was the only reason Goose was humoring him, wasn’t it? Pity. “That’s really helpful, Bradshaw, thank you.”

“Tom…come on, man, you can’t just hide your feelings forever.” _ Watch me, _Ice thought, and was about to say as much when Goose said, “Don’t you want to be with him?”

Did he. God, did he. And yet it was more than just want. It was like a craving deep in his gut, a visceral _ need _ to be with Maverick, to be a part of his life: breakfasts and dinners and good morning kisses and late nights curled up in bed and lazy days where they did nothing at all. Hospital stays and vacations and mortgage payments and fucking furniture shopping, God help him, he _ ached _for it.

And Ice thought he’d wanted to be with all the men he’d ever slept with — Cougar included — but it was pretty pathetic how much less he wanted to be with them in comparison to how much he wanted to kiss Maverick just once, just briefly.

Jesus. Everything about him was pathetic.

“I’m sick,” Ice said. “I am seriously ill.”

Goose laughed, and Ice wanted to punch him. _ Goose _ was sick. Apparently it wasn’t enough that he’d recruited Ice from beyond the grave to be Maverick Mitchell’s personal guardian angel; now he wanted to play matchmaker too. “Never thought I’d see the Iceman be so dramatic,” he said. “You could give Mav a run for his money.”

Ice threw the pillow at Goose, but it went right through him and knocked a picture frame off his dresser. “I,” he said through gritted teeth, “am being precisely the normal amount of dramatic for someone in my situation.”

Goose didn’t laugh at that; instead, his expression softened, shifting from amusement to something almost like sympathy. “I’m telling you, Tom, I think you have a lot more of a chance with Mav than you think you do.”

“Come on. Be serious.”

“I am being serious.”

“No,” Ice said, frustrated. “No, you’re not. You and I both know that Mav isn’t — that he’s not interested in—”

“In what?” Goose retorted. “Men? Being in a relationship?”

Just trying to vocalize the complicated swirl of emotions within him felt like pulling teeth, and he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Both,” he forced out. “Either. And he’s not interested in me.”

“Uh huh.” Goose did not look convinced. “So you expect me to believe when we were playing that volleyball match against you and Slider, he was only keeping his eye on the ball?”

That pulled him up short. He propped himself up on his elbows so he could get a better look at Goose, who — despite his raised eyebrows and his arms crossed over his chest — looked serious. Maybe there really was some truth to his words, but Ice didn’t make it a habit to risk it all on the smallest of chances, especially not when it came to his personal life. Not anymore. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice nearly as weak as his excuse. “I’m not going to lose him over this, Nick. It’s too risky.”

Goose was quiet for a long time, long enough that his form flickered in and out and almost faded away completely. “Sometimes,” he said at last, “you have to risk for the best reward.”

When Ice looked up again, Goose was gone.

* * *

Ice thought a lot about what Goose said, that night. About his chances with Maverick not being as bleak as he’d thought. About risking it all for the best reward. And God help him, he was tempted. Tempted to go straight to Maverick’s house and tell Maverick how he felt about him, like his life was a scene from a Jane Austen novel. He could see it all, in his head. Had his speech planned out to the letter, even to the pauses where it seemed like he was searching for the right words. He could do it. He could.

But he wouldn’t. He might have been a cold-blooded motherfucker who could look MiGs in the eye and blast enemy pilots out of the sky if they so much as twitched the wrong way — yet when it came to his personal life, Ice was anything but brave.

Taylor would tell him that he had just as much to lose by doing nothing as he did by taking the chance and being wrong. If he kept quiet, then he’d have to watch Maverick fall in love and get married to someone else, drifting away from Ice for good. And if Ice confessed and his feelings went unreciprocated, which Ice was sure they would be, Maverick wasn’t the type to out him and ruin his career. Maybe they could even still be friends.

And then Maverick would still fall in love with someone else, hopefully someone who would treat him the way he deserved to be treated. And maybe he’d ask Ice to be his best man, and Ice would have to go to the wedding and hide his pain while he watched Maverick smile and laugh with and kiss someone else. Someone who wasn’t him.

Both options hurt too much to contemplate.

From his experience, there was only one thing to do in times like these. He would distance himself. Let his feelings lessen and dissipate as much as possible. And then he could be the friend that Maverick deserved; a friend, and nothing more.

* * *

After that, Ice started rejecting Maverick’s invitations to go to the O Club, or to do their paperwork together, or go over to his house and watch football with him. Not all of them — he wasn’t that cruel — but most of them. They still had lunch together in Maverick’s office or the lounge, but Ice made sure not to get too close, or linger afterward. He hated himself for doing this, but he needed to carve these feelings out of him like a cancer, and this was the only way for him to do so.

The weeks passed, and soon the end of the session was upon them. Jazz and Digger took the plaque by four points — not at all a surprise, since they were easily the best out of this crop of pilots. Viper made the same speech he always made, and graduation was a sea of men in white uniforms and proud relatives and so many cameras that Ice saw flashbulbs whenever he closed his eyes. 

“What’re you thinking about?”

Ice looked up to see Maverick approaching him, holding a paper plate with a slice of cake on it. _ You, _he thought, but what he said was, “That we should start banning flash photography.”

Maverick laughed, and Ice bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling like a lovestruck idiot. “You going to the O Club tonight?” he asked. “Jazz challenged the others to see if they could beat him at darts, and I’ve got twenty riding on Harvard kicking his ass.”

“I, uh…I can’t.” Cowardice tasted overly sweet in his mouth, and he took a sip of club soda to try and wash the taste away. “Sorry.” 

“Oh.” Maverick frowned. “…Are you okay?”

Ice almost choked on his drink. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“We haven’t hung out much lately.” Maverick shrugged, apparently trying for some nonchalance, but Ice would have to be blind to miss the concern in his expression. “Just wondering if everything’s okay with you.”

Christ. His absences must have been piling up more than he’d thought. Some friend he was. “I’m fine, Mav,” he said, and tried for a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Really. I just…” _ Think of a good excuse, damn it. _“I just needed some alone time, I guess. That’s all.”

Maverick’s eyebrows went up. “Oh,” he said, this time quieter than before. “Oh. Okay.” He set his cake down on the available table, wiping his hands on his pants. Ice fought the urge to give him a napkin. “I’ll, uh. I guess I’ll see you once the next session starts, then.”

“Yeah,” Ice said. There wasn’t much else for him to say. “Yeah, you will.”

“Alright.” Maverick gave him a quick smile, but it was different from all the other ones Ice knew, and before he could parse out why, Maverick turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Ice alone.

* * *

“You’re being an idiot,” Goose said.

Ice didn’t even look up from his book. They’d been having variations of this exact same conversation almost every night for the last two and a half weeks, and Ice knew his part well by now. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Goose snapped. “You are. For fuck’s sake, Tom. You’re both adults; just _ talk _to him. Tell him how you feel.”

“Look, Bradshaw,” Ice began, prepared to dive right back into their usual argument about how Ice was not going to risk it all just for Maverick to look him in the eyes and awkwardly reject him, but the phone ringing from across the house prevented any of that from leaving his mouth. He pushed past Goose — or through him, rather, which felt like walking through a cold mist — and went into the kitchen to answer the phone. “Hello?”

_ “Is this Thomas Kazansky?” _

He frowned. “Speaking,” he said cautiously. He felt Goose floating near him, listening in, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Who’s this?”

_ “This is Sergeant Parker, San Diego Police. We’ve got someone named Pete Mitchell down here; he gave us your number. You want to come pick him up?” _

“What the hell?” The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “He’s — what did he do? Is he okay?”

_ “He got into a fight at The Bolt,” _ Parker said. Ice knew where that was; it was a civilian bar downtown. What the hell was Maverick doing, getting into fights in civilian bars at ten o’clock at night? _ “He’s being charged with disorderly conduct. You going to come and bail him out?” _

Ice gritted his teeth together to keep himself from swearing. “Alright,” he said. “Yeah, I…I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The police officer gave him the address of the station, and then hung up. Ice spent thirty seconds staring at the phone in his hand before he set it back onto the cradle and went searching for his jacket.

“You going to go and help him?”

Coming face to face with Maverick Mitchell right now was not high on his priority list, but Ice knew he had to. Never mind that Maverick had given the police Ice’s number — if he didn’t help Maverick, he’d never forgive himself. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.” 

“Good.” Goose let out a breath. “Just — go easy on him, will you?”

Ice put on his jacket and grabbed his keys and wallet from the hall table. His worry was fading into irritation and anger, the strength of which he hadn’t felt in a long time. “I make no promises.”

* * *

True to his word, Ice arrived at the police station twenty minutes later, and handed over the money — two hundred dollars for a disorderly conduct charge, un-fucking-believable — and signed the bail papers. The officer at the front desk thanked him for coming in and told him to wait a few minutes for them to bring out Maverick, and Ice sat down.

What he’d been told would be a minute ended up being closer to fifteen. Ice kept shifting in his chair, messing with the clasp on his watch just for something to do. And then, finally, the door off to the side opened and out stepped Maverick Mitchell, accompanied by another officer, a woman with blue eyes and bleached-blond hair. Maverick was staring down at the ground as he walked, not even talking to her, and that was when Ice knew that something had to be wrong.

“Hey,” Ice said, standing up. “Mav.”

Maverick raised his head, and — Jesus Christ. His dark hair was matted with sweat and he had a split lip and a cut surrounded by a purpling bruise on his temple. He looked like shit, and Ice hoped to God that the other guy looked worse, otherwise Ice would have to track him down and beat him into the ground.

The female officer handed Maverick a brown paper bag — full of his belongings, if Ice had to guess — and Maverick took it. There was a Band-Aid on his left hand, and his knuckles went white from how tight his grip was. It was just the two of them now, and Ice placed a hand on Maverick’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

Maverick followed him into the car, and didn’t even protest when Ice told him to buckle up. The ride back to Maverick’s house was quiet barring the occasional click of the turn signal; Ice didn’t even turn on the radio to fill the silence.

When they arrived, they went straight into the kitchen — which, thankfully, Maverick had kept mostly clean since the last time Ice had been in here. Ice put a pot of coffee on and sat down across from Maverick, who was already sitting and staring off into the distance like he’d been in the same position for the last century. “So,” Ice said. “What the hell was this all about?”

Maverick’s jaw twitched. “I went to have a drink, and the guy next to me was being a dick,” he said. Good, so he could still talk. That would make this a lot easier. “He threw the first punch, so I put him in his place.”

“And got yourself arrested in the process.” Ice didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Brilliant move, Mitchell. Really brilliant, I commend you.”

“Fuck you, Kazansky.” Maverick pushed back from the table, standing up, and Ice rose to join him, feeling a childish sort of satisfaction at the way Maverick had to look up at him. “I didn’t ask for you to come in here and judge me—”

“Well, considering the fact that I was asked to come and bail you out of jail, you’re getting my judgement whether you like it or not.” Anger was boiling his blood, making his stomach churn. “What the fuck were you thinking? You’re a goddamn officer, Maverick, you can’t just—”

“I was _ provoked.” _ Maverick’s fists were clenched at his sides, like their argument was going to escalate to blows any second. “And it’s none of your fucking business what I do with my life anyway.”

That shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, and it made Ice even angrier. “Yes it fucking is,” he snapped. “You’re my friend. I care about you.”

Maverick scoffed. “Sure you do.”

“What the hell is that supposed to—”

“Look, I know all about what the hell kind of game you’ve been playing here, Kazansky,” Maverick snapped, and the sheer amount of vehemence in his voice took Ice so aback that he actually shut up. “I know why you’ve been hanging around me so much, and why you’ve been looking after me. I _ know, _alright? I figured it out. The jig is up. So just — goddamn it, Ice, just leave me alone. Stop pretending you care.”

Ice felt like Maverick had just stabbed him. _ “What?” _

“I don’t need you to keep looking after me like I’m a fucking kid, alright? Quit pitying me and go back to your own life.” To Ice’s horror, Maverick’s voice broke, and he angrily swiped a hand under his eyes. Ice thought about his recent absences, and the way he’d tried to distance himself, and _ I just needed some alone time, _and — oh God, he’d fucked up. He’d seriously fucked up. “Stop pretending you actually care about me.”

“Pretending,” Ice repeated. He knew that he should stay calm, handle this logically, but his regret and guilt were dissolving into rage that threatened to make him shake. All the nights at the O Club and the lunches in Maverick’s office and that time at the landing strip and the three days that Ice had spent at Maverick’s sickbed, and _this_ was what Maverick thought of him? Had Maverick believed the worst of him this whole time? “You think I’m fucking_ pretending? _Is that what you think?”

“What the fuck else, Kazansky, why the hell else would you be around me all the time?”

“Because I _ like _ you, you stupid fuck,” Ice snapped, and he grabbed Maverick by the front of his shirt, yanked him close and kissed him.

It wasn’t anything like he’d imagined, not at all. Maverick’s lips were chapped, and he tasted like blood and antiseptic and the cheapest alcohol that San Diego had to offer, and he wasn’t responding, oh God, he wasn’t—

Ice pulled away at once. He released his grip on Maverick’s shirt, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric, trying to look anywhere but at Maverick’s face. God, what the hell had he been _ thinking? _ He knew Maverick didn’t like him like that, and now he’d gone and ruined everything. This time for good.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was tight, close to crumbling right alongside his heart. Somehow, he found the strength to look at Maverick, who was standing there wide-eyed and completely poleaxed. “I’m sorry for making you think I don’t care. I never meant to…I didn’t…” He swallowed back tears. “I’m sorry, Mav. I’ll go.”

Ice turned to leave, already mentally drafting his transfer request, but in one fluid motion Maverick grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back so they were facing each other, and kissed him.

Maverick was kissing him. He was kissing Ice with everything he had, like this was all he had ever wanted to do, and Ice kissed him back automatically. One of Ice’s hands shifted to the back of Maverick’s neck, threading his fingers through Maverick’s hair, holding him in place while the other settled on the small of Maverick’s back to pull him right up against Ice, right where he belonged. Everything around him was fading away into white noise, his world tunneling to just the two of them, and Ice thought, _ Yes. _Yes, yes, yes. Finally.

Maverick was completely pliant in Ice’s arms, completely gorgeous. He was on his tiptoes, his arms looped loosely around Ice’s neck. He was taking everything Ice was giving him, and when the kiss deepened, Maverick made a noise that was half-moan, half-whimper, laced with need and something much deeper, and it was the sexiest thing Ice had ever heard in his life. _ He _ had made Maverick make that noise, and suddenly all he wanted was to hear Maverick make that noise again.

But Ice drew back — not because he wanted to, but because he needed air and passing out in the middle of his first kiss with Maverick Mitchell would probably put a damper on things. His head was spinning; he was dizzy from want and lack of oxygen, but his heart had never been lighter.

Maverick was staring at Ice like he’d never seen him before. He looked dumbfounded, and dazed, and elated, like he’d never expected this in his wildest dreams. Ice could relate. If this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.

“I’m not pretending, Mav,” Ice said quietly. He traced the line of Maverick’s jaw with the pad of his thumb as he spoke, and Maverick shivered at the touch. “I don’t pretend when it comes to you.”

“Yeah.” Maverick’s voice was just as soft, and he sounded near tears. “I know.”

They stood there for a while, just looking at each other. Breathing each other in. Maverick’s hair was tousled, and the front of his shirt was wrinkled, and his lips were red and swollen. He was so goddamn beautiful, and Ice was so, so gone.

Then a smile spread slowly across Maverick’s face, a genuine, mischievous smile, and it made whatever breath Ice had left catch in his chest. “So,” he teased. “You _ liiiike _ me.”

Ice felt himself go red. “Shut up.”

“Aww, come on, Ice, don’t try and deny it. You said it yourself; you like me.”

Ice rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now too. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, Mav, I do. God help me.”

Maverick laughed out loud, and his smile, if possible, grew even wider. Making it harder for Ice to kiss him again because he _ wouldn’t stop smiling. _

It happened eventually. And kept happening for a while.

* * *

_ epilogue: _

The cemetery was mostly empty for the middle of the day, with nothing but white marble tombstones stretching out as far as the eye could see. Maverick hadn’t asked Ice to come with him, and Ice hadn’t offered. They’d just both instinctively known that they would be going together. Wingmen, through and through.

Maverick stared at the ground, his shoulders shaking. His fingers clutched convulsively at the wilting bouquet of yellow roses he was carrying, like he couldn’t make himself set them down. “Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, Goose. It’s me.”

Ice examined the tombstone while Maverick talked, his words coming out halting and unsteady. _Nicholas Edward Bradshaw,_ it read, followed by the date of birth and the date of death. _ Forever loved, forever missed. _

He had never really known Goose, not when he’d been alive, but he did now. Goose had been there for Maverick through thick and thin, had given Maverick the unconditional love that he deserved but didn’t know how to accept. And now that Goose was gone, Ice would look out for Maverick for him. Not because Goose had asked him, but because Ice loved Maverick too.

“He never should have died,” Maverick said, and Ice turned to look at him. He’d set the flowers down and had stopped fidgeting, had gone completely still. His jaw was set and his voice was taut, trembling, on the verge of shattering altogether. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“No it’s not, Mav—”

“Yes it is. He was my RIO. My responsibility. And now he’ll never — there was so much he wanted to do. So much he wanted to see.” He swallowed hard. “I should have saved him.”

Hesitantly, Ice reached out and took Maverick’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “It was an accident, Mav,” he said. “Accidents happen. And Goose never blamed you. Not once.”

Luckily Maverick was too lost in his grief to ask how exactly Ice knew any of that, to question the comfort that Ice was giving him. He looked up and met Ice’s eyes, his own welling up with tears. “I miss him, Ice.”

Ice’s heart threatened to splinter apart at those words, and he took Maverick into his arms. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I know you do.”

Ice didn’t know how long they stood there, Maverick’s face buried in Ice’s chest while his shoulders shook with sobs, but when Ice looked up, his hand stilled in its motion of tentatively stroking Maverick’s hair.

Goose was standing before them, on the other side of Maverick in front of his own tombstone. His form was close to solid, almost real enough to touch, and when he reached out to place a ghostly hand on Maverick’s back, his smile was the truest that Ice had ever seen it. Like now he could finally be at peace.

“Tom,” he said, and Ice met his gaze automatically. “Thank you.”

And before Ice could reply that Goose didn’t have to thank him for anything, he faded away into the mid-afternoon sunshine, like he had never been there at all.

The world around them hadn’t changed, yet Ice knew that that was the last time he’d ever see Goose Bradshaw, that he would never come back again. But that was okay. Goose was in a better place now; it was what he deserved.

Eventually, Maverick’s tears would dry. He would pull back from Ice’s embrace and make a joke about dry-cleaning bills and how he usually didn’t cry this much, and Ice would say that it didn’t matter, because it didn’t. And they would walk out of the cemetery side by side; not leaving it behind, but moving on. Moving on together.

But for now, Ice held Maverick in his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s okay, Mav,” he said, and he meant every word. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”


End file.
